


Cans and Cannots

by whatagrump



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Major Illness, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatagrump/pseuds/whatagrump
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers grew up with his mother. One day, she died. </p><p>That's about all we know. Here's a short fic to try and flesh out Sarah Rogers and Steve's home life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cans and Cannots

**Author's Note:**

> I just threw this together and I haven't edited it, so I apologize in advance. 
> 
> Warning for allusions to financial problems, death of relatives, and terminal illness.

In July of 1929, Brooklyn was 98º in the shade, and there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. Steve Rogers had volunteered to haul ice at the beginning of the summer, but he’d been predictably turned away. Instead, he took a job running messages between offices down at the dock. He could only work the half-day, but even that was better than nothing.

_Stupid_ , Steve thought,  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Stevie, don’t drag your feet.”

Steve grunted noncommittally and kept his eyes trained on the floor. The low grind of industrial fans echoed through the apartment.

“And close the door— you’re letting all the hot air out.”

He looked up and caught a glimpse of his mother’s wry smile before her face fell.

“It’s not that bad, Ma,” he said.

“Steve!” She rushed over, slamming the door and herding Steve over to the kitchen table. “What on earth were you doing?

“Playing in the yard. I was trying to catch the ball,” he lied, but turned away at the last second as her blue eyes searched his face. The fingers of one hand hovered over his split lip while the other pinned her frizzy blonde hair back.

“Oh, Stevie. Not again.”

Even when her brow was knit with concern, there was a little crook to her mouth. As though there wasn’t a terrible thing in the world you couldn’t tease. But she was tired. Looking at her made _him_ feel tired.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, and this time he managed to hold her gaze.

“Don’t be like that,” she scoffed, and straightened out with a huff of frustration. After a moment, she smiled again. “I’ll run and get some ice from the Grossman’s.”

“Ma, really, it’s _fine_. The swelling’s gone down some already.”

“And _afterwards_ ,” she went on, as though she couldn’t hear him, “we’re going to the movie theater.”

“What?”

“I insist.”

“We can’t!” he protested.

“Course we can, Stevie. Why’d you think I was working extra hours this week?” Her eyes sparkled as she watched his smile grow.

“Really? Really really?”

She laughed.

“But,” he hesitated, “the other day…you said you needed a new dress. The old one’s got holes in the hem.”

“Well then, I’ll hem it higher!”

“You can do that?”

Her smiled faded slightly and her voice took on the faintest air of stubborn resolve. “Stevie, darling, don’t worry about what you can and can’t do. Those words don’t mean a damn thing.”

* * *

“Who was that, Stevie?”

Steve sighed, and walked to the pantry without looking over towards the living room. “Just Bucky. He brought us some flour.”

“Oh, that’s sweet.”

He didn’t respond, staring into the nearly empty shelves before placing the sack beside a tin of tomatoes.

“Are you going out tonight, Stevie?” his mother called from her bed.

He worked to suppress another sigh. “No, Ma, not tonight.”

_Or tomorrow night, or the night after that, or the night after that, or—_

“Oh, dear. That’s too bad.”

Steve dragged one of the chairs over to her bedside, letting the chairs rake scratches into the floorboard. What did it matter? They weren’t going to be here much longer.

“How’re you feeling today, Ma?”

“Fine, just fine,” she said, staring out the window as though she could see something besides the brick wall of the neighboring building.

“How’s the pain?”

“It’s _fine_ , Stevie!” she smiled, and patted his hand.

He could look at her now that he’d had a moment to compose himself, but the gentle pressure of her hand, so light and dry and feverish, made him cringe back.

She didn’t seem to notice.

What had she once said, about nursing?

_“It’s like art, Stevie,” she grinned, knowing how ridiculous that sounded. They’d been walking home from the store. Back then they went to the store a lot. “You know, you look at the patient...”_

She furrowed her brow and pouted slightly, her hands held up like blinders on either side of her head. He laughed.

“Then, once you get the big picture, it’s about working on every little thing bit by bit. Bit by bit, step by step. And when you’ve done all that, you take a big step back…”

She scooped Steve up and swept them both backwards, and he had giggled hysterically. He was nine-years-old then.

It was as simple as that, Steve told himself. One step at a time.

“I’ll be right back, Ma. Just gonna grab some dinner for us.”

He didn’t need to eat. But it was Saturday; the Marcellio’s would have some leftover stew from last night’s dinner, at least enough to spare for his mother.

“Would you like to go out afterwards?” she asked.

He didn’t have time for this. “I already told you, I’m not going out tonight.”

“I meant with me. We could go see a movie together.”

Steve stopped in his tracks, hand frozen on the doorknob. He didn't have a response to that. Well, except for the obvious. It took a moment before he’d gathered himself enough to say the words. “We. We can’t, Ma.”

But his mother was already closing her eyes, settling back into bed and murmuring more to herself than to him as her voice faded out: “Don’t worry about what you can and can't…”


End file.
